is rich and elegant, were only a little broader, it would be quite perfect. This promenade took us from the Pavillon de Flore to the Pavillon de Marsan. Here the King asked me if I would like to pay a visit to his son, and I said, of course, that I would follow the King anywhere. We found the Duc d'Orléans playing whist with M. de Talleyrand, whose friends the Prince had invited to meet him.

The Prince's apartments are too beautifully furnished for a man's; that is the only criticism one can make, for they are full of lovely things found in the Royal garde-meuble, where all the fine pieces of the time of Louis XIV. were placed at the Revolution, and it did not occur to anyone at the time of the Restoration to take them out. The Duc d'Orléans has put a great many of them in his rooms. It is curious how often I have been at the Tuileries without ever suspecting the presence of the interesting things collected there. Thus, on this occasion in the King's room, among other things with which I was unfamiliar, I saw a portrait of Louis XIV. as a baby represented as a sleeping Cupid, and another of Anne of Austria as Minerva. I also saw some allegorical wood-carving of the time of Catherine de Medici, who built the Tuileries.

The King is an admirable guide to his palaces. I wondered during all our conversation how a man could know the traditions of his family so well and be so proud of them, and yet——. However!

I leave the day after to-morrow for London.

CHAPTER IV
1834

London, January 27, 1834.—Sir Henry Halford has just been telling me that the late King George IV., whose senior physician he was, asked him two days before his death to say on his word of honour whether the case was desperate. Sir Henry, with a significantly grave face, answered that his Majesty's condition was very serious; whereupon the King thanked him with a movement of his head, desired the Sacrament and communicated very devoutly, inviting Sir Henry to communicate along with him. Lady Conyngham was in the adjoining room. So no human interest was absent from the deathbed of the Royal charlatan while he partook of the Sacrament for the last time.

London, February 7, 1834.—Yesterday I was at Lady Holland's, who finished some story or other which she was telling me by saying, "I didn't get this from Lady Keith (Mme. de Flahaut), for she hasn't written to me for more than two months." Then she added, "Did you know that she hated the present Ministry in France?" "Of course," I answered; "it was you who told M. de Talleyrand all the nasty things she was saying here about the French Cabinet at the time when it was formed." "True," replied Lady Holland, "all the same, the Cabinet must be preserved. Lord Granville has written to Lord Holland to say that we must not believe everything Lady Keith says about the precariousness of the Duc de Broglie's position, for she is a bitter enemy of his and longs for his downfall." I said nothing, and the subject dropped. But, after this, don't speak to me of the friendships of this world!

Anyhow, they write rather amusingly of M. and Mme. de Flahaut from Paris, saying that their favour at the Tuileries is declining, he being considered a superannuated coquette, and she a foxy old intriguer.

Warwick Castle, February 10, 1834.—I left London the day before yesterday, and got as far as Stony Stratford, where I advise no one to pass the night. The beds are bad even for England, and I never experienced anything more like a trappist's couch. I left yesterday morning in the midst of a bitterly cold and extremely thick fog. It was impossible to get any idea of the country, which, however, from certain occasional glimpses, I believe to be rather pretty, especially about Iston Hall, a beautiful place owned by Lord Porchester. You pass a superb gate, from which there stretches a vast park, beyond which there is a view of a valley which seemed to me charming. Leamington, a few miles further on, is well built and cheerful.

As to Warwick itself, where I arrived yesterday morning, one enters by a fortress gate. Its aspect is the most severe, its courtyard the most sombre, its hall the most enormous, its furniture the most Gothic, and its style the most perfect that you can possibly imagine. Everything suggests the feudal system. A large and rapid river bathes the foot of the great dark old battlemented towers. The monotonous noise of the water is interrupted by the crackling of the great trees which burn in the gigantic fireplaces. In the hall huge logs are piled upon the dogs which stand on slabs of polished marble, and each log requires two men to put it on the fire.

I have only just glanced rapidly at the stained glass in the great broad windows, which are on the same scale as the fireplaces, at the armour and the antlers and the other curiosities of the hall, at the fine family portraits in the three great drawing-rooms. As yet I am only familiar with my own room, which is completely furnished with Boulle and carved walnut, and, in addition to these antique splendours, is full of all the modern comforts.

Lady Warwick's boudoir is also full of interesting things. She came to my room yesterday to fetch me, and after showing me the boudoir she took me to the little drawing-room, where we found Lord Monson, the son of her first marriage, a little man, or rather boy, shy and silent, and much embarrassed by the exiguity and weakness of his person. Lady Monson was also there. She is a striking contrast to her husband, being a tall blonde Englishwoman, stiff and bony, with long features and large hands, a great broad flat chest, angular in her movements, and rather like an old maid, but pretty and kindly. Here, too, was Lady Eastnor, the sister of Lady Stuart of Rothesay; ugly, like all her family, but well-bred, like all Lady Hardwicke's daughters. Lord Eastnor, a mighty hunter and a great eater and drinker, was also of the party; and his brother, a parson, who, I believe, has not shaved since Christmas, and who never opened his mouth except to eat. Lord Brooke, the son of the house, is fifteen and very nice looking; his tutor was with him, and was silent and respectful, as tutors should be. Finally, there was the striking figure of Lady Catherine Neeld, a sister of the Ashleys and a daughter of Lord Shaftesbury. She is celebrated for the suit she brought against her husband, of which all the papers were full last year. She is a friend of Lady Warwick's who protects, shelters, and defends her. She is a bold, rather loud person, with a malicious tongue and familiar and somewhat audacious manners. She is well made, has a white skin and beautiful fair hair, but neither eyebrows nor eyelashes. Her face is long and narrow; her eyes have no special merit, and her nose and mouth remind you of what Madame de Sévigné said of Madame de Sforze when she described her as being like "a parrot eating a cherry."

Lord Warwick had a touch of rheumatic gout, and kept his room. No one seemed to miss him.

The lady of the house is far from being in harmony with the splendid pile which she inhabits. She has been pretty without being beautiful; she is naturally witty, but has not improved her gifts by study. She knows nothing of the traditions of her castle. Her disposition is all towards fun and informality; her bodily habits are nonchalant, and altogether this plump, lazy, idle little woman seems anything but the natural mistress of her vast, sombre, and almost terrifying house. Moreover, every one seems to me a pigmy in these rooms, to fill which you would require superhuman creatures like the King-maker. Our generation is too meanly proportioned for such an abode.

The dining-room is fine, but less grandiose than the rest of the house. On leaving table a long time